


A Matter of Perspective

by dayari



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Misunderstandings, Pre-Relationship, Protectiveness, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 06:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayari/pseuds/dayari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Constantinople's Assassin order suddenly seems to take offense at the distribution of literature, and Sofia Sartor is chased through the district by a white-cowled hunter. Or is she?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> I'm celebrating the new year by posting fic! Also, I cannot believe how long this took. I completed the first draft on September 20, 2012, and it took me until now to finish editing it—I have no idea what happened there! But better late than never, right?  
> • Absolutely nothing could have prepared me for how much I ended up adoring Ezio & Sofia in AC:R. I was _so overinvested_ in them, it honestly baffled me! But I wanted to keep this canon, hence the pre-relationship tag. (This fic takes place at around the middle of the game.)  
>  • I do realize that the setting is very similar to the other AC one-shot I posted back in September. My excuse is that I just really like market days, they're so lively and colorful!  
> • According to Google, _hanımefendi_ should mean something like "ma'am," basically the female equivalent to _efendim_ (which people in AC:R often call Ezio when they don't know his name).  
>  • And finally, thanks so, so much to [pen_rabbit](http://pen-rabbit.livejournal.com/) for all her help and encouragement!! ♥♥
> 
> Anyway, enough of my babbling. Happy new year, and I hope you enjoy! :D

It is strange, Sofia muses, how much something can fade entirely into the background once you get used to it—how even the most curious matters become mundane when they are subjected to the wear and tear of daily life.

Ever since she can remember, it has been like that with the assassins. For all their careful secrecy, it is not like Sofia has never heard of them before; the order has been the topic of many an hour spent gossiping with her customers. Sometimes the heralds tell truly hair-raising stories about them, and when she was a child her parents used to warn her away from Galata, where the order was rumored to have its hideout.

But Sofia grew up in Constantinople, and the presence of the assassins has been— well, perhaps not quite as mundane a part of everyday life as trips to the bakery, but certainly something she is used to. They are just unobtrusively _there_ , another piece in the intricate, multicolored mosaic of the city. Market days are three times a week in the Imperial district; coffeehouses are always crowded and loud; walking all the way to the harbor in the mornings is worth it for the freshly caught fish. And occasionally you might see white-cowled people prowling the streets, running the kind of errands that you should be glad not to be part of.

She does not know much about the assassins, or at least not more than the average citizen. But even those who listen to the heralds' tales have to admit that the order has never been known to target civilians. The talk is only ever of skirmishes with guards, of corrupt officials that end up mysteriously dead, or of murdered Janissaries who used to incite their underlings to tyrannize citizens. 

Sofia has lived in Constantinople for most of her life, and although the people are naturally afraid of them, there has never been even the faintest rumor of the assassins going after ordinary civilians. And as far as she knows, their order has never taken offense at booksellers before.

But now one of them is following her around, and Sofia doesn't know what to do.

It's nothing overt, nothing she wouldn't feel foolish calling the guards over. The brightness of an off-white hood amidst the colorful headdresses and tunics of the other market-goers; embroidered coat-tails slipping between the women's lavish skirts; the gleam of leather and steel at the man's belt and wrists. She has no idea if the assassin knows she's spotted him. Whenever she catches a glimpse of him through the crowd, he's gone again in an instant, leaving her to wonder if her eyes are playing tricks on her.

And then she always sees him again—leaning against a market stall, slipping through a group of gossiping girls to follow when she resumes her more and more hurried steps. She first noticed him just after she took her noon meal at her favorite bakery, and now, well into the afternoon, Sofia is finding it harder and harder not to panic.

After the sunlight has warmed her hair all day, the shade beneath the awning feels almost cold. She has forced herself to stop at the small booth of a leatherware seller, simply because a disgruntled, stubborn part of her refuses to let her pursuer keep her from her errands. 

A few young men have clustered around the stall as well, inadvertently putting her at the center of the group whenever they lean around her to pick up the samples of leather. Usually, Sofia would disentangle herself with an apologetic smile and step away. But now, all she can think of is that the group is breaking the assassin's direct line of sight at her unprotected back. This steadies her hands more than the warm smell of leather, and Sofia allows herself to relax a little for what seems like the first time in hours. Her shoulders feel knotted with tension.

The touch of sun-warmed sheep hide is familiar and soothing as she runs her fingers over a sample, and the vendor gives her a hopeful smile. She has not bought from this stall before, but after half a day of seeing that white hood in the crowd every time she turns around, Sofia does not feel up to seeking out her usual supplier. The sheep hide is a soft beige color, yielding easily when she wraps it around her hand. There is no hint of dampness anywhere, no foul smell to indicate that it has not been stripped and dried properly. Sofia nods to herself at the leather's good quality, and leans around a sunburned young man to inquire after the price.

She buys several spans of leather and leaves the stall with her basket weighed down considerably. It feels like a small, defiant victory, and Sofia has to suppress the childish urge to turn around and brandish the basket in the assassin's direction. _See_ , she wants to shout to him, _you may be following me, but I am still going about my business. You do not scare me nearly as much as you think you do._

The foolish burst of pride carries her across the square and into the cool, dark mouth of a narrow street. She has the leather, but she still needs pine to make new covers for some of the older, moth-eaten books that arrived with the latest shipment. There will probably be a carpenter in the larger marketplace. The chatter and footsteps of the crowd echo through the alley, growing quieter behind her and swelling up ahead, but the road itself is quiet. Even on a market day, the narrower streets are almost deserted, while the squares bustle with colorful life.

It takes her a few moments to realize what she has done. But when she does, it hits her like a shower of cold water down her back—how utterly foolish and thoughtless it was to leave behind the safety of the crowd. Her throat closes up, and the pleasant cool of the shade suddenly turns icy on her skin.

She's heard people say that the assassins' steps are as light as the fall of the softest, downiest feather, and in fact, the only footsteps that Sofia hears are her own. But when she glances over her shoulder, she sees her hunter just a few paces behind her, half-hidden behind a stack of crates, his white clothing a dusty brownish gray in the shadows. 

Her previous thoughts of her errands dissolve into a swimming haze. Sofia stumbles, her foot catching on a protruding stone in the cracked pavement, and for a long, wrenching second, she is dangerously close to breaking into a run. The water-stained, decrepit wooden houses seem to loom over her, blocking out the bright strip of sky with their hulking shapes.

_Stupid_ , she thinks furiously, panic drawing tension like steel bands around her chest—she is so unbelievably _stupid_. This deserted street is the perfect set-up, and maybe the guards in the next square would hear her if she screamed, but she's fairly sure that the assassin won't let her, that he'd just clamp a gloved hand over her mouth first before yanking her head back and slitting her throat.

The alley is still and quiet, devoid of sound save for Sofia's steps and the fast rasp of her breathing. Her pace speeds up on its own accord, her palms growing clammy. She can only think of her unprotected back, of the prickling place between her shoulder blades. It would be so easy to bury a knife there, to dart close on soft-soled feet and find just the right place between her ribs to get at her heart.

Cold sweat beads on her neck and in the small of her back, sticking her hair and her dress to her skin, but she keeps her eyes glued to the wash of sunlight and color up ahead. The basket bumps into her hip with each hasty step, in tandem with the pounding of her pulse. Her heartbeat is choking her, throbbing rabbit-fast in her throat, and Sofia grits her teeth, uses the pain of her nails digging into her palms to center herself. She can still get out of this alive. She might still have a chance if she can get out of this alley and disappear into the crowd again. She just has to walk normally, pretend that nothing is wrong. If she looks over her shoulder, if she gives in and runs, she's as good as dead.

And by some miraculous stroke of luck, it works. The street opens up into the hustle and bustle of a large, sunlit square, pigeons cooing on the rooftops and vendors praising their wares with echoing calls, children shrieking with laughter as they chase each other through the crowd. After the quiet alley, it is like being swamped by a dense cloud of noise. But Sofia doesn't falter, doesn't give herself a moment to pause—she just dives into the nearest cluster of people she can find. 

She tosses hasty apologies behind her as she elbows her way through a group of wizened grandfathers, barely recognizing the frightened, high-pitched voice as her own. She has no idea how she must look, pale as a ghost with her eyes huge and frantic. But at least there are no angry shouts following her when she collides with an elderly lady and nearly falls headfirst into a gaggle of men.

When she has reached the center of the square, Sofia takes a moment to rest, leaning a forearm against a lamppost. The sun-warmed metal is almost too hot, but the heat grounds her. Her heart feels like it's going to beat straight out of her chest, like it'll just crack her bones, cleave open her ribs and escape. She presses a hand to her chest, struggling to steady the shallow rasp of her breathing. Her corset is not made for exertion like this.

The whalebone struts dig into her ribcage when she uses the lamppost's support to stand up on her tiptoes, and she cranes her neck to try and look over the undulating sea of heads. Sofia is not a tall woman, but the small boost in height is enough. Her gaze darts from side to side, skimming the crowd and resting briefly on the alley she's come from. At first she sees nothing out of the ordinary, just colorful embroidered veils and the occasional bared head of gleaming dark hair.

Brightened though it is by the sunlight, she nearly misses the scrap of white clothing in her peripheral vision. But when she catches it, her head whips around so fast that her neck protests with a twinge. The assassin is not so far away, just on the other side of the square, allowing the push and pull of the crowd to guide him. And as she watches, the hood slowly turns towards her, as if the mere feeling of her eyes resting on him had alerted the man to her presence.

With a little moan of dismay, Sofia rocks back on her heels. There's a lump in her throat, a knot of dizzy, careening fear that she can't choke down. She is just so _stupid_. She should've abandoned her errands and dashed home as soon as she first caught sight of the assassin. The basket feels heavy on her arm, and Sofia is grateful for the lamppost's support as she brings up a shaking hand to press her fingers to her clammy forehead. 

_Focus, Sofia_ , she snaps at herself, helplessly frustrated with the way her thoughts keep disintegrating into near-panic. If only she could _concentrate_ , she might be able to think of a way to survive this. Her failure to shake off her pursuer once doesn't have to mean she's a walking dead woman. She _has_ to believe that she can still get out of this, that there must still be a way to reach the safety of her bookshop. 

When she looks up again, she sees a doe-eyed young woman watching her, the sunlight shimmering on her dark braided hair. Their gazes meet, and the girl ventures closer, pushing a cloth-covered bag higher up her tanned arm. "Are you alright, _hanımefendi?_ " she asks, hesitant but concerned.

Sofia nods with a wan smile, and takes a deep, shuddery breath to regain her bearings. In the distance behind the girl's shoulder, there is a smear of white, blurry and unfocused, and a sickening shock goes through her at the sight. But finally, the sinking feeling in her stomach frustrates her enough to dam up the icy, creeping fear.

_This will just not_ do, she thinks furiously, and refuses to look at the far side of the square again. She will not go into hysterics in front of a stranger just because she is being hunted down and cornered like an animal. She will not scare this unassuming young woman with feverish ravings about assassins, and she _will not_ give her pursuer the satisfaction of seeing her fall apart even more.

Drawing herself up to her full height is a struggle, but Sofia manages. Her eyes want to dart to the side, to follow the bright spot of the assassin's hood that she can still see at the edge of her vision, and it is so hard to keep her gaze on the woman. "Thank you, I'm fine," she lies despite the tremble in the words, presses a hand to her heaving chest in an effort to calm herself. "It's just— the heat."

"Oh, I know," the woman says sympathetically, with a brief touch to Sofia's hand. Her fingers feel so hot that Sofia nearly flinches back, and it's only then that she realizes how sweaty she is, her palms and back clammy and cold. "It's terrible! My sister felt so faint this morning that she couldn't go to the market. She's a frail thing—she suffers from this weather much more than I do, we had to call a surgeon..."

Her voice fades amidst the roar of blood in Sofia's ears, drowned out by the painful tripping of her heart. She doesn't have to force her eyes not to wander anymore. The assassin is right _there_ , just a few paces behind the young woman, leaning against a market stall that advertizes pottery. She catches a glimpse of his face when he turns to inspect the wares, of clean-shaven cheeks that are still a little round with youth.

Sofia lets out a long, slow breath, despair tightening her throat. Perhaps the worst thing is that she has no idea what she has done to deserve this. She has lived side by side with the secretive, white-cowled warriors for most of her life, and she has never known them to go after civilians like her. The assassin order only ever takes out corrupt officials and guards, and even if they suddenly decided they had a problem with the distribution of literature, she still does not know why they've targeted _her_. She hasn't done _anything_ , she is just an ordinary bookseller, she just wanted to buy supplies—and if only she knew what she has done _wrong_ , she might get to bargain for her life, if only the assassin would give her the chance to swear that she will never do it again...

She nods absently to the woman's chatter about her sister, and swallows down the fear that lurches around in her stomach like a stumbling drunkard. If the assassin comes any closer, she will hit him with her basket and run. It's not that heavy yet, as she hasn't gotten around to most of her errands, but maybe it will stall him for just a moment longer. There has to be at least one group of guards patrolling the square, and while she would normally give them a wide berth, she might make it to them before a knife is buried in her back.

What she will _not_ do is endanger a friendly girl whose only crime was the kindness of asking after Sofia's well-being. Sofia cuts through her story of her second sister's husband with a hand placed on the young woman's arm, and gives her a forced smile. "I'm sorry, but I really have to go," she says. Her voice shakes, but she tries to look calm and reassuring, and not like she might lose her lunch all over the woman's embroidered shoes. "I hope your sister will be well soon."

The woman looks puzzled by the abrupt end to the somewhat one-sided conversation, but smiles back. She says something about Sofia getting out of the heat, but Sofia isn't listening anymore, her gaze darting over the throngs of people around her instead. She finds an opening and goes for it, ducks past dusty-cheeked street urchins and slips into a chattering group of middle-aged couples.

She can feel the assassin's gaze on her back, a tingle between her shoulders that doesn't let up despite how fast she was. Her heart is pounding in her palms and belly, a dizzying, stumbling throb. She is not cut out for this. The back of her dress feels scratchy and wet, and she keeps tripping over her own feet on the uneven pavement. Her pursuer must think her ridiculous, her limbs so numb and clumsy that she can't even walk in a straight line.

And he is _still_ following her, a patch of white at the edge of her vision that weaves in and out of the crowd. Sofia can't hold back a little sound of despair at the sight of him. He is probably snickering at her beneath the hood, and tonight his brothers in arms will be regaled with a tale of his target's poor attempts to shake him off. All around her, the market-goers are laughing and chattering, unaware of the clawing, quietly building panic in their midst. 

Sofia cranes her neck to keep the assassin in her peripheral vision, blinking against the brightness of the day. She forgets to mind her feet, and before long, the hem of her dress sends her stumbling into the man in front of her. He turns around with a frown, and Sofia nearly trips again when she disentangles herself from the group, barely remembering to stammer an apology. 

The sun feels too hot on her uncovered head, raising goosebumps down her sweat-damp back, but the urge to find a quieter corner remains. Perhaps a little open space will give her enough leverage to hit the assassin with her basket just once before he kills her. And at any rate, if she is going to die, she will not ruin these unsuspecting people's day by spraying them with her blood.

She has nearly reached the forked street at the end of the square when she sees it, and for a moment Sofia thinks her eyes are playing tricks on her in the heat, taunting her with cruel, unreal promises of safety. 

But then there is another familiar flash of black and red, gone again with the shifting gaps in the crowd, and a second later Sofia catches sight of the cowl, not white but a washed-out gray.

Later, she will wonder at the instant, wrenching relief that hits her like a tidal wave. But for the moment, she just darts forward into the crowd, pushing herself past groups of elderly women and young couples, her basket bumping into hips and stomachs. 

"Ezio!" she shouts, only dimly aware that her voice is breaking, that she sounds completely deranged and on the edge of hysteria. She shoves her way through throngs of people, ignoring the angry exclamations that follow in her wake. " _Ezio!_ Ezio, wait!"

She sees the cowl turn towards her, but then she loses sight of him as she squeezes herself between two market stalls, wincing at the crash of something falling over behind her. Her pulse is thundering in her ears, and it's like someone has pulled a muffling veil from her head, the noise of the crowd swelling up into an almighty din. There is nothing but wild, incredulous hope, and she doesn't care that the assassin has probably spotted her now, that the parting crowd gives him a clear line of sight at her back, because if she can only reach Ezio she will be _safe—_

The crowd thins so abruptly that she pitches forward with her built-up momentum, tripping on the protruding flagstones. And then Ezio is suddenly right there, filling her vision with his gray and red robes, and it's all Sofia can do to point her stumbling momentum in his general direction. "Ezio!" she gasps again, as though he would just turn around and leave her there, "Ezio, oh, _thank God_ ," and almost falls into him when her clumsy feet slip on the sun-warmed pavement.

He catches her searching hands, pulls her towards him with no regard for propriety, and she's so grateful for the sudden closeness that a lump congeals in her throat, aching and hot. She struggles to breathe through it, fighting against a wave of dizziness and the frantic staccato of her heart.

"Sofia," Ezio says, surprised, like he's seen her coming, but didn't realize until now how distraught she is. Her vision is blurry, but she still catches the sharp once-over he gives her before he lifts his gaze to the crowd behind her, quickly scanning for a threat through narrowed eyes. "Sofia, what happened?"

"There's a—," she gasps, so short of breath that she can't get the words out. His fingers close around her elbows to steady her, and the touch of his big, warm hands is so welcome that she nearly sobs in relief. "There was a— I thought—"

She's dropped her basket at some point, sees it overturned on the ground at the flickering edge of her vision. She can't catch her breath. There's a great, distant roar in her ears, akin to the faraway sound of waves crashing against a shore, and then the ground is tilting up in front of her, pitching her backwards like a bucking horse.

"Sofia, _Sofia_ ," Ezio is saying urgently, leaning down to catch her eye and gripping her tighter. His hands close around her upper arms, and he shakes her very gently, just enough to jar a bit of sense back into the cotton wool feeling in her head. "Sofia, stay with me. You are safe, I promise you, but please, you have to _breathe_."

She squeezes her eyes shut and nods, regretting the movement at the tilting vertigo, but the nausea ebbs a bit. The world has gone weightless and unsteady around her, graying out with sudden exhaustion. She breathes, though—breathes out all the way, inhales until the warm, dusty air stops sticking syrupy thick in her throat. It helps, little by little. And even with her eyes closed, she can feel Ezio almost leaning over her smaller form, a protective, slightly hunched stance that shields her from the crowd.

They stay like that for a few moments. A minute at most is all the respite that Sofia will allow. Because now that the terrified, frantic clamor at the back of her mind is gradually quieting down, she begins to realize, slowly but surely, what a fool she has made of herself. 

It sinks in with an unforgiving coldness, and she wants to withdraw and compose herself, gather up what little is left of her dignity, but she can't. She _can't_. Renewed panic billows into her mind like a noxious cloud as soon as she so much as thinks about leaving the safety of Ezio's shadow.

"There was an assassin following me," she says when she's regained her bearings enough to speak, forcing the words out slowly and quietly. "I tried to lose him in the crowd, but—"

Her voice shakes and breaks off, and Sofia hates the painful ball of fear in her throat. Gone is the woman who resolved to clobber her pursuer with her basket and attempt to outrun him, and left in her place is a frightened _girl_ that threw herself at the first potential protector she saw.

She only realizes that his thumbs have been rubbing absent-minded circles into her arms when he stops. "What?" Ezio asks, sounding completely taken aback.

Sofia shrugs helplessly, and forces herself to look up at him. "It makes _no sense_ ," she insists. "I haven't done anything wrong, at least not that I remember, but I wasn't exactly going to stop and _ask_ him."

Ezio is staring down at her with comprehension beginning to darken his expression. Sofia gets the strange inkling that an unknown someone will get a stern lecture before sundown. "You thought he was after you," Ezio says slowly. "You saw him in the crowd and you thought he'd been sent to _kill_ you?"

She blinks up at him, startled at his incredulity—from her perspective, it seems like the only logical, obvious conclusion. But then again, Ezio hasn't been in Constantinople for that long, and perhaps this is his first encounter with assassins. 

Or maybe Ezio is just not the kind of person that would be overly fazed by a murderer following him around. A little uncomfortable with the urgent disbelief in his eyes, Sofia just shrugs and replies, "Well, yes."

For a moment, Sofia gets the vivid impression that if Ezio were not in the company of a lady, he would put Constantinople's sailors to shame with some truly inventive swearing. As it is, he just briefly turns his eyes skyward as if praying for patience. "Very good at unobtrusive protection, he said," he mutters under his breath, almost too quiet for Sofia to hear. "Yusuf must have found the new recruit on the floor of a tavern."

Sofia frowns, but doesn't inquire further. She's had enough nerve-wracking confusion for a day, and the heat and her exhaustion are taking their toll, leaving her disoriented. 

It takes her a few moments of silence to realize that she's still holding on to Ezio's forearms, clinging with a desperate grip like she'll fall if she lets go. The strain has turned her knuckles white, and she's clutching so tightly at his bracers that the steel-enforced leather jabs into her palms. In fact, if it weren't for the bracers, her grip would probably hurt him too. With a little grimace at herself, she forces her fingers to unclench, and glares down at her hands when they refuse to drop altogether.

Ezio lets her go as well when she starts to look around vaguely for her basket, and bends down to retrieve it for her. He takes a little longer than necessary to refold the bundle of sheep hide, eyes fixed on his task to give her another much-needed moment to reassemble her composure. 

Sofia takes it gratefully. There's a slowly tightening knot in her stomach, embarrassment mingling with anger at herself. Surely there was no need to give in to panic like she did. She is _thirty-five_ , not fifteen, and she should be far beyond the age where a dramatic swoon into the arms of a man would have been acceptable. Ezio must think her hysterical at worst, and suffering from heat stroke at best. She can't imagine _him_ ever going on a panic-stricken sprint through a busy market square just because he thinks he saw a white hood in the crowd.

Even if Ezio is silently wondering at her fragile state of mind, he is polite enough not to mention it. He runs his fingers over the soft sheep hide and gives her an inquiring look. "Did you have more errands today?"

Sofia sighs, tries to release a bit of the tension with the outrush of air. "I did, but...," she breaks off, the words hovering uncertainly. She'll regret it tomorrow when she runs out of material, but right now she just wants to go home, hide for a day or so behind the closed doors of her house.

"Perhaps you should check on your shop," Ezio says carefully, doing her the courtesy of glancing down at the basket again. "It is getting late."

The shadows are lengthening in the rosy afternoon light, but it's not truly _late_ yet—she would still have time to buy wood if she put her mind to it. Sofia finds herself smiling a little, well aware that Ezio phrased it like that to preserve her dignity. "I suppose it is," she agrees, with more levity than she really feels, coaxed out by the simple kindness.

Ezio hesitates, his gaze traveling from the basket to her and finally to the crowded market square. Sofia's stomach tightens with a surge of apprehension—maybe he can still see the assassin somewhere behind her, hanging back and hiding in the crowd, just waiting for the two of them to part. 

If he has indeed spotted her white-clad hunter, Ezio doesn't show it. "May I accompany you?" he asks, as light and unassuming as if he were talking about any other late afternoon stroll. "It is a nice afternoon for walking." 

Swallowing hard, Sofia nods. A small, prideful voice at the back of her head insists that she should decline, that she has taken up enough of Ezio's time with her useless panic. But then again, it's not like she asked; he _offered_ , and that makes it easier for her to accept. He takes the basket with a small, relieved smile, as if he is glad that she did not require further coaxing to allow his company.

Walking back into the colorful, shifting crowd is slightly overwhelming. Sofia realizes what a wide berth the market-goers had given her and Ezio earlier, and even now, the groups of people seem to shift out of their path, taking a few extra steps to the side as soon as they spot the pair of them. Even though no one gets close enough for Sofia to feel their body heat, it seems hotter amidst the crowd. The scent of fish and fruit and a multitude of other wares hangs in the hot, dusty air, mingling with the smells of sweat and perfume.

Ezio's hand is an unobtrusive, reassuring weight on the small of her back, guiding her through the throngs of people. She winces a little at the feeling of cooling damp fabric on her skin—of course he had to touch the one spot where fear made her sweat through her dress. But Ezio doesn't seem to mind. He leaves his palm there until they've stepped out of the crowd and into a shadowy street, and there he offers her his arm instead.

It is odd how comfortable she feels with her hand tucked into the crook of Ezio's arm, with the slowing of his gait that aligns his steps with hers. The chatter and laughter of the crowd fade behind them, echoing between the walls of the high buildings that frame the winding street. The strip of sky between the rooftops has taken on a golden tint, and the shadows are deeper now, pitching the two of them into rosy twilight. 

Theirs are the only footsteps in the alley. Sofia listens to the echo of Ezio's boots and the softer sounds that her shoes make on the warm, dusty pavement, and realizes with a dim sort of wonder that she is not afraid. There is no tingle of an invisible gaze at the back of her neck, no cold, trickling dread down her spine. She doesn't even have to suppress the urge to look over her shoulder. There is only Ezio's tall, warm presence beside her, Sofia's hand on the smooth weave of his sleeve, and an inexplicable, overwhelming feeling of safety.

The thought brings her both comfort and shame. It shouldn't _matter_ so much—she shouldn't be wondering once again what Ezio must think of her now. But she can't stop prodding at her own mortified restlessness. Her grip on his arm is probably too tight. She's sure she is walking too close to him, his coat-tails brushing her dress with every other step. And Ezio is clearly just being courteous and letting her be, because she behaved like a frightened youth in desperate need of reassurance, and even if he secretly thinks her pathetic, Sofia knows her would never deny her his protection.

She worries at her lower lip until the soft skin feels scraped and raw, sneaking glances at Ezio from the corner of her eye. If he notices her furtive scrutiny, he doesn't let it show. He is focused on the street, his gaze darting this way and that, inspecting the deepening shadows almost languidly. He doesn't _look_ like he's exasperated with her, but then again, in all the weeks they've known each other, Ezio has been nothing but polite and unfailingly kind to her. He wouldn't stop now just because she has hijacked his afternoon.

On the other hand, if Ezio weren't here, she'd be jumping at every sound and constantly looking behind her, and she is _grateful_ , she truly is. And it shouldn't be so important what he thinks of her after her near-collapse in the market square. 

Annoyed at herself, Sofia lets out a long, slow breath, trying to exhale the tension. It's entirely possible that the silence feels awkward only to her, but she is still unwilling to bear it any longer. She squares her shoulders, and blurts out, "I'm sorry."

She doesn't dare look up and let Ezio see her embarrassed discomfort, but she can almost hear his attention resettle on her, feels the shift in his posture and gait as he looks down at her in surprise. "For what?"

Sofia takes a deep breath and straightens her spine, determined to cling to the last scraps of her dignity and see this through to the end. "Well, for one, I'm sure that this is not the way you wanted to waste your afternoon." She gestures at herself and the street with a little self-deprecating laugh. "Playing guard for some silly, frightened—"

"What?" Ezio says, completely taken aback. He stops walking and turns towards her— _oh, well_ done _, Sofia_ , she thinks furiously at herself, because it is clear from the concern in his eyes that she has made this into even more of an issue now.

She can only hold his gaze for a moment, feeling clumsy and young. At some point her hand slipped off his arm, and she watches her fingers thread together as though on their own accord. "I swooned like a little _girl_ ," she says, more forcefully than she intended. She tries to soften the words with a smile, but it feels wooden on her face, and so she looks back down at her twisting hands. "I know it was stupid of me to be so frightened."

"Sofia," Ezio begins, but she shakes her head. She should have just kept her mouth shut and waited for the safe solitude of her bookshop to berate herself for her behavior. But now it is too late, and this is undignified enough as it is; there is no need to make it worse by drawing it out.

Forcing herself to lift her head and meet his eyes, Sofia swallows down the squirming embarrassment as best as she can. "I'm sorry for making a fool of myself. And for stealing your time."

Ezio just stares at her for a moment. His hood has slipped a little, a few strands of black hair brushing his forehead, and her basket looks somewhat out of place on his arm. There's disbelief in his eyes, but also dawning comprehension, and an odd regret that she doesn't quite understand.

"Sofia, you—" He hesitates only for a second before putting a hand on her shoulder, moving slowly to allow her to take a step back if she doesn't want the contact. His hand is warm and heavy, the width of his palm covering the neckline of her dress, and his thumb is rough with calluses where it only just brushes her collarbone. She is helpless to stop herself from leaning into his touch just a bit, her shoulders drooping as some of the tension drains out of her.

"There is no reason to apologize. I _promise_ ," he adds when she opens her mouth to protest. He squeezes her shoulder—gently, so gently, not as though he thinks she is delicate, but more like he wants to be careful with her. "You were not foolish, and certainly not stupid. There was an assassin following you around, what were you supposed to think?"

Her cheeks still feel hot, but the tightness in her chest is easing. She shrugs, fearing for a moment that he'll misinterpret the motion and remove his hand. But the warm weight of his palm stays where it is. "It is only that I—," Sofia starts, her tongue loosened by the reassurance, "I didn't want you to think that I'm—"

_A helpless girl in need of protection_ , she can't quite say, because that was exactly what she felt like, with the assassin's gaze drilling into her back no matter how desperately she tried to get away. 

"I don't," Ezio says firmly, as if he's heard the unspoken words anyway. "I'm glad you found me. I would not have wanted you to hurry home in fear."

He ducks his head a little to catch her restless, flickering glances with his own, and when their gazes meet, Sofia can't look away despite the heat in her face. "And my afternoon is not _wasted_." Ezio's smile wavers for just a moment, as if a small, young part of him feels just as clumsy and blundering as she does. "I like spending time with you, no matter how. I am only sorry you were scared."

Sofia swallows and nods, takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. This is not at all what she expected to hear. His eyes are so warm, and perhaps just a little uncertain, as though he doesn't have to reassure his friends all that often and isn't quite sure if his words came out right. 

"I promise you," Ezio says, his voice hushed. In the shadowy street, his eyes look darker than usual. "You have not shamed yourself."

He squeezes her shoulder and lets go, and before Sofia's mind can catch up with her body, she's shifting forward to chase the rough brush of his callused thumb against her collarbone. She catches herself just in time, rocks back on her heels with a small smile that feels oddly shy. "I— thank you," she replies, just as quietly.

They're standing close enough that Sofia can smell the sun and the dust on him, that parchment-and-spices scent that latches on to everyone after a few weeks in the city, like Constantinople's personal welcome to any travelers that stay. Ezio inclines his head in acknowledgement, and holds her gaze for a long moment with something almost like pride. 

Somehow, Sofia's hand finds its way back into the crook of Ezio's arm, their steps align to avoid jostling each other, and then they are walking again. The sun has dipped lower on the horizon, a fine rosy tint spreading across the sky and gilding the few feathery wisps of clouds that have survived the day's heat. 

The silence is comfortable this time, and Sofia idly glances at the houses they pass, listening to the laughter and chatter that drifts out into the street from the opened windows. Clotheslines bridge the gap between the buildings' higher floors, bearing a colorful array of blankets and fabrics. There's a rhythmic scratching noise up ahead, and when they round a corner in the street, Sofia sees an elderly man sweeping dust from his doorstep, giving them a gap-toothed smile as they walk past.

When they reach the airy, broader streets of the northern Imperial district, Sofia has to narrow her eyes against the slanting sunlight that spills through the generous gaps between the houses. Small groups of market-goers are returning home as well, arms weighed down with baskets of wares and droopy-eyed children, tired after a day of playing hide and seek in the dusty corners between the market stalls. The scent of familiar spices and freshly baked bread drifts past on the breeze.

Together, they climb the well-worn stone stairs that span the entire width of the street where the builders fought to keep up with the upwards slope of the hill. Then it is just a matter of rounding one more corner before the street opens up into the familiar small square, the corners already graying in the fading light of dusk.

It is colder in the shadow of the buildings. The worn, wooden shelves in front of her shop look strangely bare without the books that are usually piled high for customers to peruse. Sometimes when Sofia is only away for a quick errand, she asks the bright-haired, freckled girl from next door to watch her shop in exchange for a few coins. But today, Sofia put all of the books inside when she left for the market; she hadn't thought she would be back until after sundown.

Ezio walks her to the front door. He sets the basket down and glances around, his eyes seeking out each dark corner of the little square, lingering even on a raucous group of young men that walk past, clearly headed towards the market. The sight nudges against something small and secret in Sofia's chest. Even now, when she is already searching for her keys in the small pouch on her hip, he is still keeping his promise to see her safely to her doorstep.

The keys are cool and smooth in her hand, and she absently lets them glide through her fingers, mapping out the smaller shapes of the keys to her desk and the secret compartment next to the fireplace. "Would you—" She clears her throat when her voice comes out rough, suddenly realizing that they haven't spoken in quite a while. To her, the silence didn't seem that long, and the thought makes her inexplicably happy. 

Ezio seems a little surprised by the wide, warm smile she gives him, but smiles readily back. Sofia finds the key to the front door and turns to unlock it, speaking over her shoulder as the latch slides back with a click. "Would you like to come inside for some tea?"

"Yes," Ezio replies instantly, without the slightest pause or hesitation. Sofia stops in the act of tugging the door open to blink at him in astonishment. She can see the moment his mind catches up; Ezio straightens his spine and shifts his weight, and repeats more slowly, "I mean— yes, I would like that very much. If it's not too much trouble."

Now it's his turn to look a bit uncomfortable, and Sofia smiles at him, warmed by the unexpected moment. "It's no trouble at all," she assures him, and steps aside to let him enter first. The instant, thoughtless acceptance of her invitation isn't something she wants Ezio to second-guess or feel embarrassed about. 

Whether or not there is a hidden basement in her shop to explore, and no matter if he has just rescued her from assassins, Sofia wants Ezio to know he is always welcome in her house.

The thought makes her cheeks feel flushed again, her skin too tight over the heat, and God knows that she is about twenty years beyond the age where that would have been acceptable. But somehow, after everything that happened today, she can't find it in her to truly berate herself—not even for inviting an unmarried man into her house at dusk. 

Ezio has to duck a little to fit through the doorway, and Sofia picks up the basket and follows. The familiar dusty scent of her shop envelops her like a friendly hello. The room is quiet and shadowy, the light of the setting sun trickling in through the high windows and throwing orange patterns on the carpets that cover the hardwood floor. 

She absently puts the basket down, and watches Ezio walk down the few carpeted steps into the shop. It's a sight that never fails to make her smile fondly, the way Ezio always moves a bit gingerly when he has just come in, like he's afraid of knocking over delicate scrolls and quills with his big frame. Sometimes Sofia makes a little game of it, how fast she can get him to release that careful tension—by ushering him into a chair, or chattering to him about her recent purchases, or simply warm words of greeting.

With an absent-minded motion, Ezio tugs back his cowl, and Sofia shakes herself out of her thoughts. This is not the time to daydream; she has a guest to entertain.

She takes down a few burned sticks of incense from the windowsill as she walks past, and puts a light hand on Ezio's elbow to steer him away from the desk. He automatically gravitated towards his usual seat, but this is not one of his visits where they talk of maps and ancient books. Ezio gives her a surprised look when Sofia guides him up towards her backyard, but follows willingly.

This corner of her shop is a little more private than the rest. Bookshelves are propped up against the walls here, too, but they contain her personal favorites, leather-bound volumes that are not for sale.  
Sofia is hit by a brief flash of dismay when she sees the disarray of scrolls and quills, but Ezio doesn't seem to mind or even notice the untidy state of the small table. 

Outside, the summer air is clear and warm, the sounds of the city muted by the high walls that surround her little makeshift garden. It's odd to see Ezio here. The last time they went to the back of her shop together, they found the hidden entrance to an ancient cistern, and Sofia spent an hour pacing anxiously in front of the gaping, musty-smelling hole in the stone wall. Now, Ezio is looking up at the ornately carved grates, overgrown with vines and littered with the nests of birds that have become so used to the city that they do not mind the few humans that occasionally sit in their backyard.

For just a moment, Ezio's gaze lingers on the slab of stone that conceals the hidden entrance, and it makes Sofia strangely happy that he must be thinking of the first time he ducked into her shop, wearing a tentative smile. When he glances back at her, they exchange a look of shared history. It feels like a lot of time has passed since then, although it can't have been more than a month.

The trickle of water from her little fountain sounds loud in the hush. Sofia is abruptly reminded of her plans to be a good hostess, and shakes herself out of her wandering thoughts. Fortunately, she remembers where she left the kettle this morning, and she wonders what kind of tea Ezio might enjoy, if he'll like the fruity blends that she has added to her collection recently or if he'll prefer the spicy taste of herbs. She will just make half-cups of several different kinds, and hope that her pantry will turn up something he'll like. 

"Please, sit," Sofia says, smiling at her guest, and directs Ezio to the plush carpets and cushions that cover the stone floor. Perhaps she takes a little long to let go of his arm, but if he notices, he doesn't mention it. "I'll go make tea."


End file.
